Page 122 of Love Me Tomorrow

One of the overhead lights drops to Dominic DaSilva’s head, highlighting Stamos’s right arm at the same time.

In the row behind them, Harry visibly bristles. “Weren’t youpaidto come on the show?”

DaSilva only stretches out his legs and crosses one ankle over the other. “Sounds about right.”

“So, what? You’re trying to make me feel guiltyright now? Dude, none of us received a paycheck. You did.”

“And I paid the price for it,” the ex-footballer says smoothly. “She found out, she turned me down, and that’s that. I’m not out here whining like a little bitch about someone following their heart. Savannah came on here to find the person who works forher. You signed up, knowing she could send your ass packing on night one.”

Damn.

An unexpected grin curves my mouth.

One of the producers off to the side starts waving her hands like she’s directing a plane touching down on the tarmac, and suddenly the black projector screen swaps over to LAUGH LOUD. On cue, the audience starts tittering awkwardly. One of the ladies in front of me gets so into it, she nails the chick beside her with an elbow to the kidney.

“Uh, thank you, Dom,” Savannah says, clearly trying to hold back a grin. Sobering, she folds her hands in her lap. “And, Harry, I really did try. Yes, I had feelings for Owen that started before the show began filming, but I still had . . . hope. It’s why I stayed all the way to the end.”

Devonsson clears his throat. “Although that’s not the only reason you stayed, right?”

Savannah’s expression turns wary. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Joe.”

He flips to the next notecard, snapping the old one down on the coffee table that’s situated between the two sofas. As though the table’s been wired with a mic, too, thethwackof the card hitting glass echoes loudly in the studio. “Of all the emails that were released last week, one of themreallycaught my eye.”

Unprompted, immediate silence falls over the room.

My heart kicks into gear, thumping faster.

That heiress mask that I hate so much neutralizes Savannah’s expression. She sits, hands clasped, her head tilted to the side, like they’re discussing what wine to pour next. “There were a lot of emails, Joe. I can’t even begin to imagine which one you’re talking about.”

“I think we’ve talked enough about the emails, haven’t we? How about we discuss the fact that DaSilva over here won the wet abs contest and put the rest of us to shame?”Stamos,thank Christ.

I’d kiss the guy if I were standing anywhere nearby.

“What can I say?” DaSilva drawls. “My abs are memorable. Once you touch them, you never forget ’em.”

Devonsson doesn’t even spare them so much as a glance. The projector screen’s instruction to the audience remains on LAUGH LOUD but there’s not even a peep from the crowd. Total quiet reigns, and all I hear is the rush of blood pounding furiously in my head. My fingers curl tightly around the armrest, as though that alone can keep my ass seated instead of bum-rushing the stage for Savannah.

“I’d like to read the one that really got to me.” Clearing his throat, Devonsson draws the card up so it’s at eye level. “Owen,” he says, in a tone that tells me he’s trying to impersonate Savannah’s soft, New Orleans drawl, “I can’t believe I’m still writing these, but my heart feels so torn in two. I’m lost. So goddamn lost. What do I choose? A chance for my dad to repair his relationship with my sister . . . or you? The deal of the century, hand-delivered by Daddy dearest to keep me in check. I chose Amelie, not because I don’t want you—not because I don’tloveyou—but because she’s spiraling, and I can’t see my family break more than it already has. The thought of you hating me for this is—”

“Stop.”

The whispered word flies off Savannah’s tongue and I feel it like an arrow aimed right at my heart. Her pain is palpable, but my brain is rooted on that email.

A deal.

A choice.

In the last week, I chose not to read any of the leaked emails, opting instead to trust in what Savannah and I have built, what we’ve reached together after everything that’s happened. But I can’t deny the hurt that ricochets through me, like splintered glass slicing through every one of my organs.

I smash the emotion to smithereens.

Eight months ago, if the choice had come down between Savannah and Gage, I would have felt the same impossible chasm between choosing my sibling and choosing the love of my life.

Becausethatis who Savannah is to me.

She took a man who hid from the world behind his ink and his attitude, and she stripped him down until nothing remained but vulnerability and hope. And every step of the way, she’s shown me how much the feeling is reciprocated. I think of the sketchbook that I left on the coffee table in Barataria before catching our flight to California, the one she didn’t need to buy back for me but did, with no expectations of receiving anything in return. She wanted me to keep every piece of my soul, never bartering a section off.

Last night, before I picked her up so we could head to the airport, I slung open my closet door and pulled out all of the oil paintings I’ve locked away over the years, in fear that someone might see them and pass judgment.I drove to Barataria at three in the morning, those paintings propped up on the back bench of my truck, and proceeded to hang them up in the living room once I arrived.

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